


Blame the Weather

by knighthooded



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-20
Updated: 2015-10-11
Packaged: 2018-04-22 13:49:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4837562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/knighthooded/pseuds/knighthooded
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes it feels as though life is never going to do anything but suck, and that it's just a never ending movement of nothings. On the days that you feel that most keenly, it might just be easier not to look too closely. It might just be easier to blame the weather.</p><p>A Modern AU where everyone's stuck in a small town for some reason.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Grantaire

Grantaire woke up, immediately wondering why he had done so. He rolled around, burying his head into the pillow, but then rolled back – he hadn’t changed the sheets for quite some time. Another thing to do today. Stellar.

The all too familiar grey light was coming in through the window. He hadn’t bothered to close the curtains last night, something for which he was now cursing himself out loud. It was way too early. Even though the sun hardly ever showed itself to his dead end town, the light that did get through the clouds could still get pretty intense, as Grantaire was now experiencing. He blinked, he blinked again. With a low grunt he rolled himself out of bed, stumbling his way through piles of dirty clothes as he made his way to the bathroom. More reasons to laundry.

Looking at the mirror this early in the morning was a confrontation he wasn’t really ready for. His hair, which was usually a little messy, could now only be favorably compared to a bird’s nest. Well, a nest made my a bird who had flown into a tree, repeatedly. He picked up the brush, and then put it down again, stupidly wondering how many painful knots there currently were in his hair. Plenty, probably. He picked the brush up again, and slammed it against his head. When he finished it felt as though there were more curls in the brush than on his head. His hair had become fluffy, so he made his hands wet and hauled them through his hair. His messiness was part genuine, part genuine effort.

Grantaire’s days didn’t usually start this early, more often than not he woke up late enough to skip straight to lunch, so there was some confusion as to what he was supposed to do next. Then he remembered that he was still in his boxers, and that putting on some clothing would be nothing short of appropriate. However, when had seen to that he felt at a loss again. Eventually he dropped himself in front of his computer and started scrolling through random sites, not really reading anything. He kept it up for two hours, but by then the ache in his stomach had become too strong to ignore, even for Grantair.

He wasn’t really in the habit of keeping food in the refrigerator (was it still working?), which meant he had to leave the house. The weather outside was still grey in every sense of the word, and as Grantaire turned around the corner – leaving his two bedroom cottage behind – it started to drizzle. He walked steadily on, shoulders high, hands in his pockets. He bought the cheapest sandwich available, and then quickly walked back to the house, not up for his usual routine of hanging around the beach that was adjacent to the town. If global warming didn’t stop soon they were all fucked, he thought to himself – it wasn’t a thought that could bother him much, though, what with the sea being so calm today.

It was this sea that he was supposedly here for, although he hadn’t at least pretended to paint it for a month. Grantaire wasn’t really clear on how he had become resident painter, but by now it was something he was used to – people asking him what he was working on, the girl in the supermarket inexpertly commenting on the lighting he would probably get if he went out at a certain time. Though he wasn’t really a landscape painter – he preferred painting people – he used to go out with an easel anyway, and painted sunsets and sunrises, and the stoic sea in between. It used to be nice.

By noon he was at the bar, pub, café, whatever, ready to start handing out beers to the local drunks and tourists, and bringing plates filled with 50 percent grease and 50 percent food. It was the best job for Grantaire, but it still bored him to tears, so he mostly wasted time talking to Éponine or Azelma, sometimes Joly, really anyone who would listen to his bullshit. But none of them would come in this early in the day, so he was stuck handling Huche’s disgusting lunches – seriously, why did the cheese sandwiches look like that?

“Good morning,” someone said, just as he was about to take his break.

With a sigh Grantaire turned around to face them. “You’re a little late,” he couldn’t help but saying. “About two hours ago the appropriate thing to say became good afternoon.” After which he allowed his face to split into a wide grin that he knew didn’t meet his eyes – it was his preferred look for messing with people. But his expression kind of froze the moment he saw who he was speaking to. This guy was, in one word, radiant – in many words a kind of odd combination between sunlight in winter and a freckled boy with skin so clear it made Grantaire feel self-conscious. Not that he was going to be silly enough to let that show. But his joke was lost on the guy before him.

“I don’t have time for stupid banter about what’s a suitable greeting, and what isn’t. The sentiment was clear enough, I was looking to start a conversation.” And now the winter light had become a house on fire. Grantaire wasn’t sure whether he had deserved that.

“Wow,” said Grantaire. “Calm down, sunshine. This conversation is started alright.” Then, because he really did want to go on that break: “How can I help you, sir.”

“You don’t need to mock me.”

“Who says I was mocking you?” said Grantaire, though he totally might have been. This sadly only stopped the guy short for a fracture of a second, and then he barreled on.

“It doesn’t matter,” he decided. “I’m here because I’m interested in renting the back room of this café for meetings for the local paper. We don’t have a building of our own. So if you’re not using it, I’d like to rent it. I just checked, the room looks nice enough.”

“Well overall ‘nice enough’ is what we humble servants here at the Café Musain strife for,” Grantaire butted in, not sure whether he was annoyed or not. The guy looks unabashed.

“So can we rent it or not? I’ve already checked at the Corinth but that place is –”

“Dodgy,” Grantaire supplied. The Corinth was the bar where Grantaire could quite often be found, but even he had to admit it wasn’t the friendliest of places. Someone had probably been killed there, it kind of had that vibe. “Sure, I’ll talk it over with Mrs Hucheloup, give us your email address and we’ll get back to you.”

“Is Mrs Hucheloup the manager?” the guy asked. “Can’t I speak to her right now?”

“Trust me, you do not want to interrupt Huche when she’s cooking. Or come near her cooking for that matter.”

“Should you be saying that? You do work here, you know.”

“Thanks for the reminder,” Grantaire shot back. “It’s my break, so I’m going to head out, and you know – really sniff up that fresh sea air. If you just leave your name and email address I’ll get my best word in for you with Huche, no worries.”

He shoved the notepad towards the guy, trying very hard not to linger and get a look at what his name was – he could do that later – and left the building to go for a smoke by the boardwalk.

 

Cosette

She was leaning on the counter, something she was told not to do, and something that she never did if she could help it, but it was something she was doing right now. She was bored and kind of tired, and there was no one in the shop, so Cosette did not feel guilty at all. In fact, she felt such a lack of guilt that she was flicking through a magazine from the rack behind her without looking up every once in a while for her boss – yeah, the day had been that slow.

The magazine was filled with pictures of sunflowers and snowy mountains, photos that Cosette was not that impressed with if she was honest. She wasn’t sure whether she could do better, but she knew that these pictures were bland. Still, she liked the sunflowers enough to keep flicking back to the page that was filled with them. It was a field somewhere far away, far away enough that it felt justified in advertising going there for a lot of money. Cosette sighed, she shouldn’t be dreaming of travelling, she knew she shouldn’t, but somehow this was what made her dreams all the brighter and all the clearer. She wouldn’t leave her father, so that was the end of it, and that was why she was flicking through magazines, instead of hiking to some strange new place.

And while Cosette sometimes felt sad about this, she could never allow her feelings to get too dark, as there were many, many things around town that made life not only bearable, but in many ways fun. Though of course it wasn’t right now, right now it was boring. With a sigh she put the magazine back where it came from, though of course she was still not scared of the manager.

After she had closed the shop up she still had an hour to spare before dinner, and even though she was tired from being on her feet all day, she decided to wander around town for a while anyway. It was a good thing she had her camera with her, because dusk was settling in quite prettily. It used to be an older model, no bigger than her hand, but when she had started to become serious about her photography, her father had bought her a big one, with detachable lenses and everything, including a massive yellow (her favorite colour) bag. Cosette hadn’t completely figured out how the thing worked, but she was definitely improving.

Snapping some shots, she made her way towards the beach, the vague yellow of a setting sun hidden from view as the background in her photographs. She loved the town because of the beach and the sea, a view she could see from behind her counter if she stood on tip-toes. Even though Cosette had been about eight years old when they arrived in the town, she really felt as though all the important parts of her childhood had happened here. Every time she walked past the playgrounds, squares and walks she had turned into fairytales as a kid she was overwhelmed by her own kind of lingering happiness.

 

Courfeyrac

“I’ll definitely come!” was the first thing he said, the moment he was handed the opportunity. He was bouncing on the ball of his feet, lifting himself on the countertop so he could smile at the boy across from him on equal height. It wasn’t a success, to say the least, the boy was much too tall, but Courfeyrac was proud of himself for trying. “Can I bring my … friend? He’s really smart, you’ll definitely want him there, if you’re going to transform this paper and stuff.”

“If he has interest, he’s definitely welcome,” said Enjolras.

“Great!” Courfeyrac beamed. “I can call him now, if you’d like?”

“No, that’s fine. I just came by to drop this pamphlet. But it’s great that you and your friend are coming, or well at least that you’re coming. The last few people seemed too annoyed to even put the flyer up. Of course, they did do it in the end, but still.”

Courfeyrac felt sorry for the guy. Improving the local paper wasn’t going to be easy, and he was surprised Enjolras had even been hired in the first place, his entire being screamed militant! way too loudly for a paper mostly known for its knitting patterns (which were totally stolen from Pinterest by the way, Courfeyrac tracked the patterns on there pretty avidly). Still it was a noble effort, and Courfeyrac was all about those.

“So what will you be writing about?” he asked.

“Issues that are present in town, but that are interconnected to the larger social issues at hand,” Enjolras said promptly, sounding as though he had been generous in allowing the locals to play any part at all in the local paper. But Courfeyrac was definitely interested.

“Man, that’s sounds amazeballs!” – Enjolras lifted an eyebrow – “I’ve got so many ideas!” This earned him a smile.

“That’s great Courfeyrac, that’s really great! So I’ll see you on Monday?”

“Yes, definitely!”

Even if it made him nervous, one silly meeting at a café couldn’t make him as scared as going to work every day, right? Right. He would go, and he would ask Combeferre as soon as Enjolras left the shop, just to make trying to wriggle out of it even more difficult. He would go and enjoy it, because standing in a second-hand bookshop all your life and not doing anything else was not the plan. Also, he had to admit, he wasn’t sure what Enjolras’ reaction would be if he didn’t go, the guy seemed kind of… intense.

So Courfeyrac smiled brightly, as he always did and nodded at everything that was said afterwards, and had to remind himself to stop smiling when the guy had left the store. Then he called Combeferre, who, predictably, lapsed into a long-winded talk on the things he wanted to write about – one of them being gender politics in the performance of Mama Mia by the local school children – and spent the rest of the day thumbing through a collection of fairy tales. Working at this store was mostly boring, but he did get to read on a lot of subjects he would have otherwise never even thought about.

 

Feuilly

Even though he had asthma, he had still managed to climb the fucking hill, conquered this once mountain, using only his scrawny combination of limbs. He was proud, even if he did have to sit down for a couple of minutes now. His back to the town and the sea, Feuilly looked out over spreading valleys, bare and green in the watery sunlight, dappled with sheep and no villages. A soft wind played with his scarf, the hairs on the back of his head and his rain coat, which was made from Tyvek and coated with nylons, so that his sweater underneath could stay dry.

On his ramble to the top of the hill Feuilly had taken a lot of pictures with his phone: of leaves that interested him, of slugs halfway across branches, of rotting and kicked away mushrooms, of odd clouds; anything that struck him. When he got home he’d identify everything and know everything, this was his tradition. Being wise would be his liberation.

Though he often tried his hardest to get Bahorel involved (secretly hoping the forest might do something to calm the man), today he had not been successful. The forest was different when he was alone, more alive, more similar to him, he wasn’t sure whether it was more, or whether he was less human. Even though he liked the feeling, it was a shame Bahorel couldn’t come. He liked all of his friends (believing them deserving of the very best, and innocent despite their faults), but he liked Bahorel best.

Above the hills on the other side of the valley rain clouds were gathering, so Feuilly, having his breathing back to normal, decided to return home, which was an apartment on the second floor of a flat still steeping in the glory of functionality so believed in in the 70s. He hated it, but had done his best to brighten it with all kinds of things he had found in the forest. His cat, name Frobisher, was also helpful.

He had got the cat after on very intense study session. Combining work and school was never easy, and this particular evening he had been forced to stay up until four am, helped only by his good friend coffee. When he had seen a cat meowing loudly after that, he had thought nothing of it and had gone to bed. The next morning he hadn’t had time to consider the cat either, as he had an exam to go to in the city. He ended up getting a full score on it, so he decided the cat must’ve brought him good luck, and had adopted it the moment the search for an owner had proven futile.

Today he got home and found her next to a pair of torn up sneakers and purple boots, from the kitchen he could hear talking and glasses clinking.

“Feuilly!” Bahorel shouted. “Don’t you have anything to drink?”

“No, I don’t,” said Feuilly (his walls weren’t thick enough to justify Bahorel’s volume). “As you well know, because my fridge is as good as yours.”

“Damn straight,” Bahorel shouted again, as Feuilly kicked of his own muddy shoes. “Remember that time I got my hands on the massive wedding cake, the one we ate in one day? I’m the best fridge mate ever.”

“And do you remember those times you ate almost everything I brought in, aka all the other food that has since been in that fridge?” said Feuilly, walking in an seeing Musichetta lounging on his sofa. She nodded at him, a sly smile on her face. He walked quickly past her, towards the kitchen, a space separated only from the living room (and bedroom) by a long, brown counter.

“Don’t be mean, Feuilly,” said Bahorel, side-eyeing him as he piled everything that used to be in the fridge on the counter. “Or you won’t be allowed to share this magnificent pavlova.”

“Is that why you’re melting everything else in my fridge? How do you keep getting these cakes anyway? If it wasn’t for you I’d have a flat stomach, but you keep bringing the damn things in.”

“I have connections,” said Bahorel, tapping his nose. Feuilly snorted.

“With whom, the cake mafia?”

“Shhh, watch it, you can’t stay too quiet about them – next thing you know we have a massive pie-fights in the middle of the street.”

“Wait, is it the pie or the cake mafia?”

“Aren’t pies and cakes one and the same?” Bahorel asked, as he tried to gently shove the pavlova in, with mixed results: it didn’t looks as though the cake would come out the same shape as it got in.

“No way, man,” said Feuilly. “There are definite differences. Important differences, though I’m not sure what they are yet.”

Bahorel was now shoving everything back into the fridge, Feuilly’s entire system (based on expiration dates) uprooted. “As long as they taste good, I don’t care,” said Bahorel, slamming the fridge shut. “So would you like a piece of that cake?”

“The one you just stuffed in there?”

“I saved us all a piece – or no, wait. I didn’t. Shit.”

They ended up taking it out again, losing half of it to the roof of the fridge, and just plopping the pavlova on a plate, taking their bites from that. Musichetta had been reading the local paper, and now picked it up again.

“This should interest you, Feuilly,” she said.

“What, the local paper?” Bahorel immediately interrupted. “That pathetic rag? I picked it up once, and I still have the grey hairs to prove it. The most interesting thing they write about is the color of the pavement, not wanting to offend anyone. I could blow one of their reporter’s brains out, and the last place you’d read about it is in there.”

“Yes, yes, it’s horrible,” said Musichetta. “Thanks for your opinion.”

“No, wait, I disagree,” said Feuilly. “I’ve written for that paper, remember?”

“Why did you think I touched the thing in the first place, dude?”

“And they wrote something really interesting about the specifically local behaviour of field mice last month.”

“You have to admit, though,” said Musichetta. “Your articles about the experiences of immigrants in this town don’t really jive that well with the pieces on provincial xylophone players.”

“That’s a compliment, by the way,” Bahorel added.

“Anyway what’s interesting is that they’re asking for new people – here: ‘Anyone with an interest in current affairs, social justice and improving the depth and quality of the paper in general is welcome to join us at a location yet to be decided on, this Monday at three o’clock.’ And then it’s an email address, I guess you have to write to them if you want to find out where to go. Bit silly, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, I guess,” Feuilly answered, already dreading where this was headed.

“So, are you gonna do it?”

“…no?”

“Come on, man,” said Bahorel, full of indignation. “You’re like one of the best writers I know!”

“And what does that even mean? How many writers do you know?”

“Shut up, Feuilly,” Musichetta said gently. “You’re good. Besides, it’s a way of getting out more.”

At this Feuilly laughed, albeit a bit shakily. “Uhm, I was just outside, like a literal hour ago.”

“You know what I meant, you dork.”

‘I’ll come with you if you like,” Bahorel offered.

“I – I don’t have the time,” Feuilly tried.

“Sure you do,” said Bahorel. “You just keep filling it up with all your research, which you know is what I love about you, but being around other people really would not hurt you.”

“I’m not sure.”

“If it turns out to be a trap to make you do boring shit for free, you can always back out. I’ll help you with that, don’t worry. And like I said, first meeting, I’ll come along.”

“I’ll come too,” said Musichetta.

“Well, okay then… I guess?” he conceded at last. Sealing his fate, shoving it in a locker, throwing the key away and burying it with concrete. You just did not say no to Bahorel and Musichetta. Especially not when they combined their forces.

 

Éponine

To protect herself against the lurking of the night she had put on her modern day armor, ripped jeans, heavy eye makeup and combat boots with which she stomped through the newly formed puddles in the street. Autumn was coming, so she had also put on her long black coat, collar turned up against the breeze. Gavroche was at home with Azelma, and if they weren’t, Éponine trusted Gavroche to take care and not do anything that she would consider too stupid. She wasn’t too sure where she herself was heading, but then she never was. Sometimes she’d end up at the Corinth, but today wasn’t that kind of day. It wasn’t really a day to go and bother R either, he had been far too pathetic lately, even if he himself didn’t yet realise it.

It was nice enough to just walk though, nice enough to see what stars shone brightly enough to get past the din of the streetlamp lights, nice enough to watch it become dark and for her to disappear into the lack of colors. Éponine had been happy lately, even if the nights were often tougher than she’d have liked them. But the town was quiet, which was exactly what she needed right now, and she’d even made something of a friend as well. It was more than she could’ve ever hoped for.

She walked, from the street by the sea, into the town, past the lights of restaurants just opened, of dinners just served, of commuters safely returned to their families. She walked on. As she turned up the volume of her music, carried on her three year old cellphone, she came into the part of town where the houses seemed abandoned no matter what the time of day was, even if fresh flowers were always behind the glass windows. She moved on. Past the bars, the closed shops, the parked cars, until she was outside of town again, and the hills looked too dark for some ridiculous midnight hike, so she headed home.

As she dropped the keys on the table she realised she hadn’t felt as relaxed as she felt now in a long time. Gavroche was already in his pajamas – had probably not taken them off since yesterday – and Azelma was lying on the sofa, looking cold and tired – though she looked like that every day, recovery just wasn’t fucking easy. She looked up when Éponine let herself fall down next to her.

“When did you wake up?” asked Éponine.

“Around four. I ate yesterday’s pizza for breakfast.”

“Did you like it?”

“I gave Gavroche most of it,” Azelma admitted. “But what I ate, I liked. Did you have a nice day?”

“Yeah, I did, I bought you this, in fact,” said Éponine, throwing down a tattered book next to the keys. On the cover were a lot of flowers and some Latin names. It was something about botany, she was pretty sure, anyway. “For if you’re up for it,” she was careful to say – when she had said that it had been for the future (last time she had bought Azelma a book) there had been a rather ugly panic attack. “I don’t know anything about the flowers or art, but I thought it looked nice. I got it from that second-hand bookshop, the one by that statue of that guy with bull…”

“And the pig,” Gavroche supplied.

“Yes, and the pig,” she agreed. “Anyway, the jumpy guy behind the counter was really eager to help me, I don’t think he gets many customers… Do you think it’s – it’s good?” she added after Azelma had slowly picked up the book.

“Well I can’t really tell, can I? I haven’t read it yet,” said Azelma, playful.

Relieved, Éponine laughed, then stole the remote from Gavroche (“Hey!”) and started flicking through the channels, sometimes glancing at her too skinny sister, who was now hesitantly smiling as she studied the pages. Éponine nestled into the sofa to get comfortable.

 

Grantaire

The moment he returned to the restaurant he found out that the guy’s name was Enjolras, and that he could be reached at a disappointingly normal email address. Whatever, Grantaire didn’t care, and neither did Huche, who sent him away with some fair price to mail to Enjolras, as well as days the room was free. Which was every day of the week except Saturday – that was bingo day for all the tame old grandmothers of the town, though sometimes they snuck in sherry under the nose of their sleepy leader, which made serving them a lot more fun.

He left the bar a little past midnight, leaving Huche to close up, hoping she hadn’t fallen asleep again. Last time that happened some teens had snuck in and gotten so drunk they had still been there by the time Grantaire came to work again, all lying in some corner. The mess left to clean up had been horrible… When he got home he let himself fall onto his bed and slept until, to his dismay, it was Sunday and there was no work.

 

Courfeyrac

Even though he was clearly half asleep, Combeferre was still talking away happily. Babbling something about how an all-female cast would have solved the problem, to which Courfeyrac whispered that that probably would be great. Then he softly lifted Ferre’s glasses off of his nose, because he looked as though he was going to fall asleep with them still on. He gently kissed him on his temple, at which Ferre’s eyes opened again.

“You okay?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

“I don’t know,” Combeferre whispered. “Never mind, don’t worry.”

“No, I won’t, why don’t you not worry?”

Combeferre smiled, half of his face obscured by the pillow. “Don’t be silly.” His voice was barely audible, but because it was so quiet in their room it still sounded very clear.

“I’m always silly,” Courfeyrac whispered, kissing Ferre’s temple again. “You know that.”

Combeferre smiled again, something which could still make Courfeyrac’s heart flutter. “It’s my favorite part about you,” he murmured. And then Courfeyrac was sure he was asleep, because Ferre’s eyebrows went up just a little, his expression relaxing. It took Courfeyrac a bit longer.

“I love you,” Courfeyrac said next morning, as he plunked some eggs and toast on Ferre’s plate. While Courfeyrac always had energy to spare, Combeferre took a lot longer to get going in the mornings. He had forgotten his glasses on the night stand, and he was clutching his cup of coffee with a scary kind of intensity. Courfeyrac kissed him on the forehead, and then danced back to his own breakfast, singing ‘Good Morning’ from _Singing in the Rain_ as he did so.

“I love you too,” Combeferre replied. “Though you’d do me a massive favor if you’d shut up.” He could say that so softly, so kindly, Courfeyrac had to smile.

“Have you thought some more about the stereotypes reinforced through ABBA songs in modern musical?”

“No, I was sleeping, but I’m sure I’ll have something for you sooner or later.”

“Good,” said Courfeyrac, going on to hum _Gimme Gimme Gimme_ to Combeferre for so long that eventually Combeferre looked Courf dead in the eye, and said: “You already had me before midnight.”

“Oh. My. God.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first meeting happens, Grantaire rambles, Enjolras is on fire, and Courfeyrac adopts someone.

Grantaire

“Is this the place?” someone asked as Grantaire was scrubbing away at the bar. He threw the rag over his shoulder, because why not look the part of charming, bartending sarcastic? The person talking to him didn’t look as though they conformed to any particular gender, which was bold as all fuck in this town. They had brown skin, their hair in long braids, grey eyes and more scarves than could ever be justified, no matter what the weather. Still they looked nice, like a royal in some parallel world. When they moved their jewelry jangled.

“Well this is certainly _a_ place,” said Grantaire. They frowned.

“Yeah, yeah, of course. I mean for the paper thing?”

“Oh, that,” said Grantaire. “You’re a little bit early, it doesn’t start for another hour or so.”

“I know.”

“Okay, well in that case it’s in the back room over there. Want anything?”

“Some water, please,” they paused, looking intently at Grantaire. “I’m Jean, by the way, but I mostly go by Jehan. Gender fluid, so I’d like you to use they. Makes things easier for me.”

“Sure.”

“Who are you?”

“Grantaire, mostly go by R.”

“Really?”

“No. It’s just some nickname. Mostly go by just Grantaire” It was actually just the signature he used on his artwork, a kind of joke that had lost its meaning and was now just part of him. And his work.

“Well, R, I’m pleased to meet you,” said Jehan, smiling. He held out his hand, and as they shook hands Grantaire could feel the cold of their Celtic rings press into his hands. “So it’s just through there?”

“Yep.”

Grantaire wasn’t going to lie. He was surprised. First he was surprised that Enjolras wasn’t the first one to be there, and secondly that this town could produce someone who looked as wonderful as Jehan. And that they would be interested in writing for the paper. Last time he’d met anyone gender fluid he’d been in the city, living with his girlfriend. Painting every day, even if it didn’t make him or her any money, and going out every night, even if it didn’t necessarily make either of them very happy. What they had liked were the people, different groups every night, all sorts, all kinds, and they were never boring. When he moved through the city he had kept himself alive, when she was with him he had felt okay – and now she wasn’t here and the city wasn’t here either. Just the dead town, and, and, and… clean brushes, clean fingers, clean canvases.

“Grantaire, get your shit together,” Éponine was standing in front of him. Chin tilted upwards, eyes narrowed. “What are you doing, standing there, staring like that? Get me something to drink.”

“Good afternoon Éponine, how are you doing on this fine day, why, yes, I’m doing good too, wish the weather would let up, but then you know how things are in this part of the country, can I get you anything?” Grantaire smiled, leaning on the bar. “That’s how these things mostly go, you know.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not Ethel or whatever, I’m Éponine, you’re incredible, amazing friend. Here for a drink, though non-alcoholic this afternoon. I plan on getting hammered tonight at your place. Do you still have that weird, cheap wine?”

“The South African one? It’s not weird. It’s good.”

“Sure, sure. And then I want to listen to music or something. Or meanwhile, you get what I mean. Now get me some apple juice or whatever.”

“Apple juice, are you like five or something?”

“Yes, I am five years old. Now give me the juice, Mr. Bartender.”

He gave her a juice packet and paid for it. Then she left the café to check in on her sister and brother, after which she’d go back to work. Soon after that Enjolras came in, looking determined, shoulders pulled back a little, eyes aflame. Grantaire wondered what the guy would look like if he was doing something that actually mattered. Fucking scary, probably. To Grantaire’s mixed feelings he walked over to the bar.

“Is everything ready?”

“Was I supposed to do something? It’s just the room you wanted right?”

“Yes, but other customers are gone from the room right?” Enjolras was kind of craning his neck…

“Trust me, we’re not popular enough to use that room. I’d be surprised if there are more stains on the tables than there are cobwebs in the corners.” Enjolras raised an eyebrow. “Darling,” Grantaire added.

“Well, okay, I just wanted to check.” He was completely unfazed. “Can you bring some drinks in about halfway through? Some water, coke, fanta – that kind of thing.”

“Sure.”

“Ok, thanks.”

And with that he was off and had disappeared into the backroom. After a while other people started to walk into the café – they either looked around and found the room, or they asked him. All were young and passionate-looking, looking nice enough. Then Joly came in, practically flying through the café towards Grantaire, in his wake a lanky bald guy with really cool tattoos and one who was tough and chubby – and she also had blue hair.

“Grantaire, my man, my friend, bud, pal, buddy – ”

“Diminutives don’t count, dude.”

“Shh, you don’t make the rules, mate.”

Grantaire had to smile. “You done yet?”

“Compadre, amigo… partner? Yeah, I think I’m done, how’s it going? We haven’t talked for a while now, absolutely criminal, don’t you think?” His two friends were kind of lingering in the background, waiting to be introduced – probably.

“Yeah, they should have you arrested. What was the name of that guy who confiscated my car that one time? Chopin?”

“Sounds about right!”

“He was a total dick. Don’t get arrested Joly.”

“Don’t plan on it. I’ll drop by more often, get drunk and stuff. Oh, by the way – this is Musichetta, and this is Bossuet, they’re my friends!”

“Hi.”

“Hey.”

“Yo.”

“You’re all people of many words,” said Joly.

“Sorry, Joly,” said Musichetta. “But we’re going to be late for the thing? The thing you were dying to go to? The thing right over there? The one to which you are dragging us along?”

“No, that’s not fair Chetta, you wanted to go to this one as much as I did. For Feuilly remember? Is he here yet? I want to meet him.”

“You’re gonna scare him away, I swear.”

Joly laughed. “No way!” And pushed himself away from the bar and into a discussion with Musichetta. Bossuet walked in after them, flashing a smile at Grantaire, and then laughing at his pair of friends. Grantaire had a smile on his face, but it didn’t linger long. He went back to cleaning glasses.

 

Jehan

 

They liked taking in the room. Watching the dust particles dance in the light of the grey sunbeams, disappearing into the shadows, but always – continuously – being replenished. The tables shone in the light from the windows, through their own grease, the only thing breaking the surface the occasional ring and crack in the wood. The chairs were empty, shamelessly revealing their threadbare seats. They must have been red, Jehan thought, because now they were pink. They was playing with their Celtic rings when Enjolras walked in and changed the scene.

If he was surprised that Jehan was already there he didn’t show it. It would be lazy to compare the guy to a Greek god, so – with great difficulty – Jehan refrained from doing so. Enjolras was built on outward contradictions – solid in his movements yet always flowing, his blue eyes cold but filled with fire, and his colours changing with the light even though he seemed somehow more than this world. He came over to speak to them, and the two of them were still talking when the others came in.

Combeferre was tall and elegant, his eyes always focused and aware, as though he knew everything at once: the fact that you were chewing your lip, while knowing that it wasn’t warm out, seeing that people are moving to talk, realising that there is a beauty in almost everything and understanding that love is really what it’s all about. Platonic or not. He was smiling as Courfeyrac chattered at him, and Courfeyrac was smiling back with an impressive brightness. There was a nervousness in all his movements, but it did not hide how genuinely loving he was towards everyone new he met. How intelligent and sometimes old his eyes were, even if he did not realise it.

After them Feuilly, slight, careful, kind, full of visions, with hands tired from work. He wasn’t smiling, he was trailing behind Bahorel, in hiding. But in his carefulness, his shyness, there was a strength that was still clear in everything he did. A belief that lit up his features, his eyes, his movements. Bahorel looked proud to stand next to him, but he also looked proud of himself. If Feuilly’s strength was beautiful, Bahorel’s was terrifying. He could crush you, he could crush anyone. But he looked pleasant as well, he liked to laugh, the sound of it like boulders rolling, and he had excellent judgement (of people at least) – proven by the fact that he liked Feuilly, and was there in the first place.

After them a girl came in, who was named Cosette, and who had sunshine all about her. Her hair was pink, and her eyes were dark, and when she smiled at the people in the room she really meant it. She was intelligent, confident, and kind. She had dragged someone along, who was like her in many ways, but also looked a bit less. Like someone had added water to her personality and this was the result. His name was Marius.

Perhaps Jehan wasn’t being fair. Marius looked like he genuinely meant well, even if he did look clueless as to why he was there at all. And he looked as though he made Cosette happy, and as though he might become an interesting person one day. Even if he wasn’t one right now.

Now a rowdy group came in, laughing and moving with a chaotic fluidity. They were a travelling group, who had now decided to stay in this town for a little while. The smallest of them was the happiest, name Joly, and he made everything around him dance. His friends, his clothes, his hair and especially his eyes. Musichetta was beautiful, standing tall with her broad shoulders and a smile on her face. She was a woman in control, every movement certain. The third was Bossuet, who was unlucky in everything except his personality and friends. He had pretty tattoos on both arms, and was wearing torn walking boots, looking like a 21th century Indiana Jones.

Courfeyrac approached Jehan, almost yanking their hand into his own, shaking it vigorously.

“So who are you?”

 

Grantaire

 

Right around four Grantaire felt the time was right to barge in on whatever was being discussed in the room. He loaded a collection of drinks onto a tray, which he held in the air with one hand. Overall he thought he looked the epitome of relaxed elegance, even if he was wearing a hoodie and jeans. But when he walked in no one noticed him. He was able to walk to the back of the room, set down the tray on an empty table, and just watch them, go at it.

It started with Enjolras talking about his goals for the paper, and Grantaire didn’t understand half of it. He hoped the guy had given the others some kind of explanation as to what half of these terms meant, because it made no fucking sense to Grantaire. Still, it was interesting to watch the guy be so passionate about a thing that didn’t matter. Until it wasn’t. They all loved his ideas, seemed so fragile in their happiness. When they started talking with Enjolras, and with each other, he felt uncomfortable to no small extent.

He saw this group of friends in the making and he felt so, so angry. But also as though he wanted to laugh. Laugh at them all. They believed they would change the world. They were beautiful, they were annoying. He wanted to be with them, he wanted to be as far away as possible. He felt ugly about these feelings of sardonic pedantry, but he charged in headlong anyway.

“This is really adorable and all, but I don’t see why old women who want to read about their grandchildren and their community centre projects are going to care about the possible post-colonial aspects of flower shops in the local area. No offense.”

“That’s not at all what we were talking about,” Enjolras replied (to Grantaire’s delight) indignantly. “Thank you for the drinks, but if you’re not interested in talking about these issues I’d ask you to leave.”

“No, no, I’m very, very interested. You know, sometimes I think I might as well stab myself, but then I see kids like you, all bright and full of passion – and, God, God, it just gives me hope. Makes me wanna live another day, y’know?”

Enjolras was starting to go a bit red in the face, but it was the guy with the glasses and the sour expression who interrupted Grantaire. “You shouldn’t joke about that.”

“Who said I was joking, sweetheart?” This only earned him a raised eyebrow.

“R…” Joly whispered. He was sitting in a chair quite near Grantaire, cane relaxed against Bossuet’s leg. He knew Grantaire’s signature because he came over to the cottage quite a bit, and the kid just couldn’t leave the old works strewn around the room alone. He had taken to the nickname like a twelve year old takes to using the word fuck around their friends. With a pang Grantaire remembered he had once promised to paint Joly, he hoped he had forgotten as well. “R,” Joly whispered again. “Don’t be a dick.”

“That is some great advice, Joly, my man – but you see, I have this condition…”

“That makes it impossible for you to say anything worthwhile?”

It was like spilling coffee over your fingers. Not only Enjolras’ words had hurt him, but the look he was given stung as well. He really shouldn’t have expected anything else, and it wasn’t as though what Enjolras had said wasn’t true (it was just that Grantaire didn’t want it to be). Did the guy honestly have to be that rude? Really it wasn’t as though Grantaire hadn’t said worse things, hadn’t wanted to say worse things.

“You’re honestly breaking my heart. Truly,” said Grantaire.

“I doubt that,” said Enjolras. “Now, if you don’t mind – could you please leave? Again, thank you for the drinks, but if you’re going to be disruptive we don’t want you here.”

“No, it’s fine don’t worry about my feelings. I’ll leave.” Grantaire managed a smile, turned around and walked out of the door back into the rest of the bar. He deserved that, he reminded himself, he deserved all of that. In fact he had asked for it, because (before he’d done it) he’d felt as though he deserved that. No he felt as wrong as he was, and maybe he could get through the day. Maybe.

 

Joly

 

The meeting had gone really well, and everyone seemed really excited about giving the paper a completely new image. He had been given an assignment to write about public places accessible to people with a handicap (such as himself), which Joly didn’t think would be easy as the entire town was built on a steep hill so really even the streets were inaccessible without someone else’s help. Not everyone had Bossuet or Musichetta who would carry you up and down the hill if you said you were tired. They were so great.

As the room was emptying Joly turned to Bossuet, who was playing with his cane, and Musichetta, who was humming as jazz song to herself.

“Give me my cane Bossuet, I love you, but I don’t want you to lose or break it.”

“I would never!” said Bossuet, quickly handing the cane back to Joly.

“I meant to add ‘again’ to the end of that sentence,” said Joly. “Remember when we were in the mountains? When you were literally holding it for me one second, and the next it was at the bottom of a ravine and Musichetta had to slide down that thing as though she was the Lion King or something?”

“Have you ever seen the Lion King?” Musichetta interjected. “Because that not how the scene in the ravine went at all. I would be dead if that had been the way it had happened.”

“Wait, seriously?” said Joly, shocked.

“No, Joly,” said Bossuet. “You’re not allowed to be surprised – only Chetta and I get to look like you do now. You never saw the fucking Lion King?”

“The fuck, Joly?” Grantaire had walked over, rag over his shoulder, tray in hand. “You never saw the Lion King? Isn’t that like a mandatory formative experience for every young person in this day and age?”

“Nope,” said Joly.

“A scandal.” Grantaire went on to lift their drinks onto his tray and wiped the table. “Hey, if you all want to come over an watch it, I think I’ve got the dvd lying around – and if not I’ll just download it.”

“Sure! We’ve got nothing to do tonight,” said Joly.

“We can finally get Joly some proper education,” Bossuet added. “None of that medical bullshit, this is what’s going to come in handy in later life.”

“I call dibs on all of Scar’s lines,” said Musichetta. “So where do you live, Grantaire?”

“Joly knows. So I’ll see you all tonight?”

“Yes!!”

After that they left the bar to walk over the boardwalk. Going to Grantaire’s tonight would be good for R, Joly thought to himself. Whatever that scene was just now, it wasn’t at all like the Grantaire he knew, or like the Grantaire he wanted Bossuet and Musichetta to know, Grantaire was really great – his entire house was filled with paintings and he himself was full of jokes.

 

Feuilly

 

 

“That went well, didn’t it?” Feuilly asked Bahorel, as they made their way back to his flat. “They seemed really impressed with what I had written, isn’t that awesome?”

“It’s great. But I don’t know how I got stuck with writing about local history, I feel like I’m back in school – and remember, I dropped out. I especially hate writing about peace negotiations between people who have been dead for two hundred years and who didn’t even fight once.”

“Don’t worry – I’ll do it for you.”

“No way, man, you’re busy as is. I’ll find something to write.”

They made their way over the cobbled stones to the tarmac, to the bare gardens, until they were at Feuilly’s door.

“You staying over tonight?” he asked.

“If you don’t mind, my apartment is still – ah, unavailable. The couch is fine again.”

“Sure, sure. Chetta seemed happy too.”

“Yeah, she made my head hurt with all that feminist jargon,” said Bahorel, smiling. “She was incredible.”

When Feuilly had first met Bahorel, the guy had been a mess. Everything had been bloody, as he had stumbled through the town, his clothes, his hair, his mouth. And while Feuilly was a kind person, he wasn’t blind – his first instinct had been to back away as fast as possible. But then Bahorel had complimented his elephant sweater (one sleeve was the trunk) in a loud voice from across the street, and Feuilly had taken pity.

A year later he still wasn’t sure how it was that Bahorel got those injuries, but he was really cagey about it. When asked, he would shrug it off with a joke, and when pressed, Bahorel would say he liked their relationship as uncomplicated as possible. Feuilly wasn’t sure what he thought about that, but he liked Bahorel best and did not want to push him away.

So Feuilly let him crash on the couch whenever his apartment suddenly became a place he couldn’t go. He had only been to Bahorel’s apartment once before, and the strange thing was that it seemed completely normal. But it was fine with Feuilly, he trusted Bahorel.

“Welcome to our B&B, where you’ll be the one making breakfast for the host.”

“Shit, seriously?

 

Grantaire

 

 

 

Grantaire lifted his neck and looked at himself in the smudgy mirror. He could see the arteries beat against the rough skin of his neck. Pushing life to every part of his body, in a constant, awkward rhythm. He shaved, but carefully, so as not to completely remove the dark stubble that existed as a pattern on his face.

He was not prepared for four people coming over. The living room was a mess, filled with empty bottles, newspapers and all other kind of shit, the origins of most of it unknown to him. He did not have enough to drink in the house (for once in his life), and it turned out he did not own a Lion King dvd either. He sighed both internally and externally, he was going to have to download the damn thing, and find some way to get it onto the tv, or they were all going to be huddling around a five year old laptop. But, as the Dutch always said, whoever says A must also say B.

By the time he was finished the living room looked half decent, and his bedroom was a death trap. But it didn’t matter, all he did was sleep there anyway – no one but him entered that room.

Éponine was the first to arrive, and if Grantaire wasn’t so sure he was one paranoid piece of shit, he saw her face drop when he told her Joly and friends would be coming over.

“I think I’ve seen that movie at least twenty times?” she said. “Gavroche had this whole period where he wouldn’t shut the fuck up about it. Thank God he’s now moved on to Harry Potter, they’ve got a bit more content, you know? Though I feel his Tarantino phase is only months away.”

“Man, I’m not going to be around when that starts. You’re on your own there, Éponine.”

“Fair enough.”

 

Combeferre

 

Courf was glowing all the way back home, singing whatever came into his head, smiling at anyone who passed. He looked better than he had in weeks. He had light brown curls and the most beautiful curls to ever hit the sunlight. He also had freckles and anxiety issues that only Combeferre really knew about. They had been dating for a little over a year, and things had been pretty stable. The most difficult thing that had happened was him quitting medical school to move with Courf to this town. He had told him it was only a temporary thing, which was something that he had told himself as well. He loved Courf he really did, especially his spontaneity. Sometimes, however, it was something that annoyed him more than that it made him feel affectionate.

“So tell me again, if you don’t mind, how come we’ve adopted this guy, this Marius Pontmercy, who looks as though he’s hardly ever gone outside his parents’ home?”

“We haven’t adopted him, don’t be ridiculous,” said Courfeyrac. “We have a guest, a temporary roomie if you will.” Combeferre sighed, which spurred Courf on. “Come on, Ferre, you should have seen him – he was all pouty and excited, and he looked so cute when he was talking with Cosette. And then Bossuet told me he had nowhere to stay –”

“Was he the bald one?”

“Yeah, – and we do have that unused spare room…”

“My study you mean. You know, with the books, and the desk…”

“Yeah, that’s the one!”

“ _I_ use that room.”

“Pshaw,” (he could make the most cartoonish sounds if he felt like it). “You prefer the living room – you’re always stretching out on the couch with your books and your notes, using my lap as the most comfortable footrest you could have thought up.”

“But I use the study as well, you know I do.”

Courfeyrac focused his brown eyes on Combeferre. “Ferre,” he said sweetly. “I love you so much, and I know you’re a generous person. Do you really want to leave this innocent, lost puppy out in the streets?”

“Is his situation that dire?”

“Do you know me as a person who’d exaggerate?”

“Yes.”

“Pshaw, ok fine – he has a place to stay, but not for long, and I already said he could come. Besides, it’s not as though you use the study late at night, he promised over and over again how he wouldn’t be a bother, so I offered him the room.”

“So you’re really alright with this?” It was the question he had been meaning to ask throughout the entire conversation. But you couldn’t be straightforward about these issues with Courfeyrac, it’d only make things worse. You had to be patient and kind, and try to find out whether things were really alright, or whether he was being really brave. And you had to do this as subtly as possible.

“Of course I am, why wouldn’t I want another nice guy around?”

“Nice? At the meeting he went on about how Jupiter Ascending was a feminist masterpiece, I’m pretty sure he didn’t even have a clue what he was saying.”

“He’s an idiot alright,” Courfeyrac said lovingly. “But he means well, he just has to grow a little more. Come on, let him stay over, it’ll be fun.”

“Fine, alright.”

 

Grantaire

 

When it came down to it, The Lion King really was a piss poor retelling of Hamlet. All the angst and stupidity taken out of it, so basically everything Grantaire liked, but now with some random catchy songs added into the mix. It was fun, he guessed. Éponine got along easily with them, which wasn’t at all surprising, because even though she acted tough, she was also a big softie who wanted to be there for everyone she met. Musichetta had been singing the moment the film had started, with her incredible vocal range she could sing every song beautifully, Bossuet had the tendency to spoil scenes without meaning to, and Joly was the human equivalent of a bouncy ball, soaking up any emotion the movie threw at him. They were a fun set, always laughing at his jokes at the right time, and really polite about the shitty wine he kept. They were all so damn nice he was glad he had stashed away his paintings (though Joly was disappointed), claiming he was preparing them for some gallery (as if).

It turned out that they had been travelling the world, and Grantaire had to keep pausing the movie to listen to their stories that randomly cut into their conversations. Stories of mountains, rivers, hills and happiness.

Towards the end Éponine got really quiet, but she wasn’t the first to leave. In fact she lingered long after the other three had headed back to their hotel. Normally it wouldn’t be an issue for her to stay a bit longer, but it had gotten to be four am and she still didn’t look as though she was about to leave. She really was something, Éponine. Wanting to help, but not wanting to be vulnerable. Wanting to be tough, but not wanting to be a complete dick either. The first time Grantaire had seen her she had had long, curly black hair – now it was short and blonde (it was still curly though). She was sweet, but it was time for her to leave. Something that Grantaire had no trouble telling her.

“Alright, Éponine, get out. I’ve got to sleep.”

“No, not yet – I’m not in the mood for leaving.”

“Want me to walk you home? I think you’ll be alright, but just to be sure.”

“Sure.”

The stars were kind of hazy from the mist, they both lit a cigarette.

“If this was a bad movie,” Grantaire said. “This would be the moment you’d start to get all serious and explain to me why you were so quiet the entire evening, and why you didn’t leave when you got tired. Good thing this isn’t a bad movie.”

“I’m not tired.”

“Please, I saw you yawn like fifty times.”

“I was just flexing my face.” This made Grantaire snort. “Okay, fine, I’m tired. But I like hanging out with you – is that so crazy Grantaire?”

“Pretty crazy, yeah. Though not as actually crazy as I am of course.”

“See, I wish you wouldn’t say shit like that.”

“Why not?”

“Because you make it sound as though you’re joking when you’re really not.”

“So?”

“So. If you say shit like that it means you’re not doing well, you idiot.”

Grantaire was not liking this conversation one bit. He took another drag and then made some vague comment about the light, that he should paint it.

“You never paint anymore, what’s the point talking about it? When I first met you your nails were constantly some shade of blue, but right now they’re as clean as I’ve ever seen them. And I’m not trying to be your mom or anything – ”

“Trust me, you couldn’t be.”

“But I really think you should talk to someone when you get like this.”

“Like what?”

“I was talking to Musichetta about your attitude today. She said you were a completely different person outside that meeting room. That she was apprehensive about coming to your house, but that she trusted Joly’s judgement, but that you acted like a complete ass when you came into the room.”

“So I should talk to someone about the fact that I’m an asshole? Good luck – shall I talk to you about it? Here it goes. My name is Grantaire, sometimes I go by R. I’m twenty two years old, and I’ve been suffering from being a dick ever since I was twelve years old. You can ask my friends, they know. It all started when I began listening to alternative rock. And then it became a trait of mine when I got like really angsty. Some people grow over that shit, but I’m not a quitter. So no, by now I’m stuck in this small town with a friend who doesn’t know when to mind her own business, especially when she’s got her own business to mind. Seriously her family is fucked up, why take another sad sack of shit in to help? She’s so brave, so selfless, and it is all for nothing. I love her, she knows that, but she had to back down. This support group thing is great, though, I can just feel the toxic thoughts leaving me.

“Or wait, can I? No, wait, that’s just me sobering up – unfortunately. And, to add to my most miserable of misfortunes, there is no shop around that stays open until very late. So you go to sleep, hoping you don’t stay up too long wondering about all the useless crap – and instead nod off until it’s time for work, so you work until it’s time to drink, and you drink until it’s time to sleep. A perfect system if you ask me. Kept in place by me being an asshole.”

“Jesus, Grantaire, you could’ve just told me to mind my own fucking business. No need to be a long-winded asshole about it.”

“No, I don’t want you to mind your own business.”

“You literally just told me to do that. If it’s not that, what were you trying to tell me?”

Grantaire sighed. “I don’t know. I guess I was trying to be funny.”

“Well you didn’t fucking succeed.”

“Sorry.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, I said once in a fortnight, but it's already become once in every three weeks. At least it's something, I guess? Comments are very much appreciated!

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading the first piece of fanfic I've ever uploaded online! Because my uni work isn't spread evenly the next couple of weeks, updates will probably be a bit irregular. I'll try to post once every fortnight though, so let's see where this fic will take us!


End file.
